


Nevertime

by Anaross



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M, Post-Apocalypse, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-27
Updated: 2015-02-27
Packaged: 2018-03-15 11:43:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3445886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anaross/pseuds/Anaross
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spike, Illyria, and Angel flee the apocalypse they unleashed in LA. If they can contact the Council of Watchers they might even get out of North America and back to civilization. Internet cafés are a bit thin on the ground, however.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Arctic Autumn

**Author's Note:**

> This is Spuffy eventually, but Spike in the beginning has given up the whole celibacy-martyr thing, which, you know, never got him anywhere anyway. A jealous Buffy is an attentive Buffy.
> 
> Post-Not Fade Away.
> 
> Joss owns 'em, I just love 'em up when he's too mean to them.

The truck sputtered to a halt a few hundred yards from the trading post. Silver lining, Spike told himself, pushing open the door and getting out onto the rutted pavement. He cast a glance at the overcast sky and pushed his sunglasses up. The days were getting shorter, and his sun-headaches were less frequent. The northern reaches would be good for him.

"C'mon," he said to his comrades. "Maybe we can get some petrol out of the pumps."

"Staying here," Angel said. As usual. He lay down on the back seat, pulling his knees up so he could fit big body into small space, and closed his eyes.

But Blue emerged in her stately way, testing the ground with her booted feet and stepping fastidiously across the puddles. "It is cold," she announced, looking around at the new snow dusting the pine trees. She reached out her hand and touched the air. "This is cold."

"That it is, love."

She didn't like the cold. Fortunately, neither did most demons. The further north they travelled, the fewer monsters they encountered. And with any luck, the demons– dumb as posts, most of them, and ignorant of earthly geography-- would never learn about the other continents, including the one just a few hundred miles west.

Blue was a good sport, all in all, and just zipped up her Gore-tex vest against the cold. She spent a moment with the zipper, up and down, running her fingers along the join, marvelling at the technology. Spike watched, enjoying this, the way she discovered the world he'd occupied for so long. She didn't like this world, but she had a sense of wonder about its many aspects.

Finally she was done absorbing the conundrum of zippers, and looked up at him. He offered her his arm, and she studied his wrist, his bicep, before she put her hand in the crook of his elbow. It wasn't that she didn't trust him. He imagined she trusted him as much as she trusted anyone. More. But she was like a cat -- she had to check a surface out before she touched. You'd think by now she'd have checked out his surface sufficiently, but she was wary of change. And he'd changed, because now he was wearing a sweatshirt underneath his leather duster, and that made his arm a bit bulkier. Not like the Spike arm she understood from previous encounters.

They walked a hundred feet or so before Spike looked back at the truck, standing alone and dirty in the middle of the two-lane road. "You think Angel's okay?"

Blue considered this. "Yes."

The nuances of human behavior were mostly lost on his indigo goddess Illyria. Angel was alive, and intact, so he was okay. Spike wished he were similarly oblivious, and didn't notice that Angel did nothing lately but sleep, that he wept silently as he dreamed, that he had to be reminded, even forced, to eat.

Spike suspected Angel would kill himself if he ever got enough energy.

Vampires didn't commit suicide. It was the greatest of sins for a demon. Spike had only considered it that once, when he was newly chipped and miserable for Dru and figured his unlife was over anyway. And he hadn't even tried that hard -- attempting to stake himself when all he had to do was walk out into the afternoon.

Vampires didn't off themselves. But Angel wasn't a vampire anymore. He'd gotten his precious shanshu, but his beloved Powers got the last laugh. Being a human was bloody miserable, that's what Angel found out, having forgotten what he must have learned the first time around. Couldn't have been two weeks after the apocalypse that he came down with a putrifying cold. The look on his face when he first hacked up blood.... Spike found some antibiotics in an abandoned pharmacy on the road north, and Angel recovered quickly enough. But then there was the intestinal upset, and the damp of the Northwest, and now the cold wind. And Spike was pretty immune to it all still, though he complained of the chill just to keep Angel company.

Angel resented him, nothing new. But now Spike couldn't blame him. Angel woke up after the apocalypse to find all his friends dead -- the only two left standing the two he couldn't stand -- and himself a puny human. And a day or two later, they found Spike was ... something more than he'd been before. A vampire still (even now, Spike had to go half-game-faced to reassure himself), but one who didn't need blood and wasn't allergic to sun -- except that he got headaches when the sun was too bright. And sunburns on his delicate skin. The curse of the English, along with the gambling and drink, that is.

All the strength, the sensory acuity, the immortality of a vampire -- Spike still had that. Just none of the disadvantages. He didn't know how it happened, and he knew it wasn't fair. He wasn't the hero of destiny, the chosen champion of the Powers-that-be. But he was the one both of them regarded as rewarded.

Angel's Powers had played a last joke on him, and who could say why. (Well, Spike had his theory, not that he'd ever share it with Angel -- his grandsire had spent a century denying the demon within him, so they blessed him by taking it away, and with it went his strength and power and will to live.) So of course he resented Spike, resented being dependent on him, resented being stuck with two immortal beings of superstrength. Resented that they could still find some pleasure in this blasted world, because he couldn't.

Sometimes Spike wished Angel would do it and get it over with -- take one of the shotguns under the truck seat and ....

Well, no. Spike didn't wish that. Spike wished Angel would just be happy, or as happy as anyone could be in a world where evil almost won and left a dessicated landscape behind.

Not so dessicated up here, thousands of miles north of the epicenter. Now Spike could see, between the gas pumps, a tub of autumnal mums. Alive. Well-tended.

Amazing. Someone was living at the trading post. They hadn't seen any signs of life, human or demon, for two hundred miles. Spike let Blue's hand go, gestured her to stay back, and approached the parking lot. There was a light burning in the window of the old log building, under the non-working OPEN sign. The grounds looked neat and tidy, and there were the outlines of last summer's garden alongside the building.

He beckoned Blue forward. She was good to have around, just in case. So they walked together to the door, and he called out, "Anyone here?" as he pushed it open.

No one answered, so he entered, Blue right behind him. The single room was dark, but lined with shelves, stacked with dry goods. Spike breathed deep. It smelled like baby powder and motor oil and yesterday's lasagna dinner. It smelled good. Blue silently began gathering supplies into a basket, as he'd taught her in the abandoned 7-11s all the way up here, scavenging tins of food and bottles of beer. Spike prowled around, looking for the occupant, but the human smell was hours old.

So he took a plastic bag from the counter and found a gas can and took it outside. There hadn't been any electricity this side of the Rockies for months, so the pumps didn't work. He had a generator in the truck, but it needed petrol to work, so -- so he had to get petrol the old-fashioned way. He slid the bag over the nozzle, poked a hole, and began sucking. The smell almost made him gag, but eventually he got some suction going, and stuck the nozzle into the can and let it fill.

He was just reseating the nozzle when he heard footsteps. He capped up the can and waited. Eventually an old man came around the corner of the building, a rifle in his hand and a brace of rabbits hanging from his belt. He halted when he saw Spike. "Howdy," he said.

"Hey," Spike answered. "Didn't realize anyone was still here."

"Yeah. Me and no one else."

"Well, we're passing through, headed north. Stopped by for some supplies." Spike was hoping that the man would just say to help themselves, but instead he nodded and led the way back into the store.

He saw Blue and stopped dead, so that Spike almost ran into his back. "You got a lady, huh?"

"Yeah." Spike circled the old man so that he was between the rifle and Blue. Not that the rifle would hurt her. It was just the gentlemanly thing to do. "So. What sort of currency do you take up here?"

The old man kept his eyes on Blue. She ignored him. He licked his lips and said, "What you got?"

Spike pulled out his wallet and counted out American and Canadian bills. They were worthless, but maybe the old man was crazy enough to take them.

He wasn't. "What else?"

Spike said, "Got two boxes of bullets. In exchange for supplies and petrol for the truck."  
  
And we'll let you live, he almost added. But he wasn't evil anymore, even if the old man was regarding Blue with a look that ought to get him killed, and just might. Blue wasn't as scrupulous as Spike.

"Okay. Two boxes of bullets. Help yourself."

Spike took some batteries for his CD player and some candy bars from the counter -- and saw the computer sitting in the middle of the desk blotter. The monitor was flickering.

"Jesus."

"Yeah," the old man said proudly. "Battery power. I rigged it up myself. Internet and everything."

"In --" Spike took a breath. "There's still an Internet?"

"Well, sure." The man gave up his regard of Blue and went behind the counter. He clicked the mouse and the screen lightened. "It's not like the old one. But there are plenty of sites left. Forums. In the east and Europe. I figured out how to connect through -- you're too young to remember short wave."

"I know short wave. But --"

"Well, it works like short wave. Through radio waves. Figured it out myself."

Spike set the batteries and candy on top of a stack of never-to-be-paid bills. "Would you mind if --"

The man looked over at Blue, who had gotten another basket. "Well, now, son, that's going to take more currency. Like your lady there."

Spike sat down at the computer and typed an address into the browser. "She's yours if you want her."

The man chortled and walked heavily down beside the hardware shelf. Then Spike heard a strangled gasp and looked over. Blue was crushing a tin can in her fist. Blood-red stewed tomatoes seeped through her fingers and on to the floor. "Spike," she said. "I broke this can."

"That's all right, love," Spike said. "We'll clean it up."

The man was backing away, out the door. "Take -- take what you want," he muttered and disappeared.

Spike grinned at Blue, calmly setting the squashed can back on the shelf. Then she wiped her hand on her workshirt. She'd taken off her catsuit when he told her he only had sex with naked partners. Now she dressed like he and Angel did -- shirt and jeans and boots. Only she looked prettier than Angel did. The leather catsuit was balled up under the truck seat, and once in awhile, she put it back on, just so she could take it off again. He kind of liked those times.

Blue wandered around, checking the shelves against the supply list she kept in her brain. And he typed in a couple webpages -- BBC was still up, but not MSNBC -- but the connection was slow and flickering, and he was wary of using up the batteries reading news he couldn't use. W&H.com was all gone, but he already figured that. He tried a European URL, and found that Man U was still among the living, had just beaten Arsenal 3-1. This almost unmanned him. His hands were trembling as he clicked on the free email forum and entered his old address -- spike@manchesteru4ever.co.uk.

Apocalypses had no effect on spam. He found thirty solicitations to regrow hair, and got into the old rhythm of clicking delete and then enter. And he was about to delete the 31st when he noticed the email address. dawn101@cow.co.uk. He sat for a moment, staring at the address, too scared to click on it. But finally he did, and there it was -- long and sad and all Dawn.

_Spike, I'll try once more. I guess you're not there. I guess nothing's there. But I'll try._

_We're okay. Whatever happened over there in the West didn't cross the ocean, so everyone here is okay. Andrew says hi if you're still alive. We're going back and forth between Rome and London. I'm learning Italian. Buffy's okay, I know you want to hear that. She's got a new boyfriend, I know you don't want to hear that. But she's pretty sure you're dead for real this time. So am I. I think most everyone's dead there. I guess the east is ok. Well, not ok -- there's like no commercial air travel anymore to NY or anywhere, but there's some kind of government, and we get reports that everyone's rebuilding. The Euros are sending lots of aid. I'm glad we're here and not there._

_We're pretty safe. All the witches on three continents -- I mean, Europe, Asia, and Africa -- got together psychically (or something like that -- you have to ask Willow) and put up a demon barrier along the coasts. So even if they could get across the ocean, they couldn't get in. I don't think. That's what Willow says anyway. We still have the Euro demons, and they're feeling empowered by what happened over there, so they're keeping Buffy and the others pretty busy._

_Giles is letting me do research, so that's cool. Xander's sticking pretty close to London. He likes it that they speak English here, and he likes the beer. I mean ale. He always drinks an extra pint in your memory. Just thought you'd find that funny. He drinks way too much, but Giles says everyone does in England because the weather's so gloomy. Oh, don't worry. I don't drink way too much. Like Buffy would ever let me._

_I bought a Ramones greatest hits CD and listen to it a lot and think of you. I miss you. I wish we'd had time to be friends again._

_Love, your bit_

Spike set his forehead against the keyboard and closed his eyes. He held everything in tight, his fists, his joy, his fear, held it in and kept it. Dawn. Buffy. The world.

He felt Blue's hand on his shoulder, and turned his head. She almost never touched him in that way, except in bed. Her warm fingers touched his cheek. "Weeping. You are like Angel."

At this, he sat up. "I am nothing like Angel. Only time I cry --" these days, anyway -- "is from happiness."

She tilted her head and considered this. Then she gave him that _Spike crazy_ look that every woman he'd ever known eventually gave him. Even his mum. "That makes no sense," she said. "Less sense even than the rest of this world."

He turned back to the monitor, scanning Dawn's email again. "Go get Angel, love. Make him come with you. Tell him I've got good news." When she just stood there, implacable, he added, "Please. Your worship. I humbly implore your glorious aid. You are king, queen, and prime minister of Angel-carrying."

That was all she ever need to cooperate -- appropriate recognition of her superior status. She departed happily enough.

While she was gone, he typed out a quick note.

_Bit, yes, I'm here. A-OK. Glad you all are doing well. Not so good here, but maybe not as bad as you've heard. California is done for, and Oregon, and Washington, and most of BC. We're in Alaska, and it's pretty much deserted, but no demons to speak of. Don't know if you know what happened. There was the usual apocalypse, demons from another dimension, and we might have been able to handle it. Only there was this fail-safe mechanism at W &H, so when they attacked the building, it sent out electrical pulse, all that, caused some earthquakes, opened up a couple baby hellmouths. More demons. Damned senior partners. I'd sue them, but all the lawyers got crushed. Illyria, this ancient goddess who is with us, opened a portal and that sucked most of the demons in, and so it's not as bad as it might be -- plenty of demons left, but not enough to colonize._

_The humans who survived headed east and south. I don't know about Mexico, but I think South America's probably all right. And the army got up some barriers in the Rockies, so east of Denver might be okay. Think there's been some damage, but they're functioning again. Trouble is, there's a line of Moregen demons patrolling the Western slope, so no one can get out that way anymore._

_We're headed north. Demons don't like the cold. So we're hoping we can find some way across the Bering Strait. We'll contact you all when we get into Russia._

_Don't worry about me, bit. I'm right as rain. Tell Buffy Angel's here with me. He pulled the humanity card, so he's all pink and beating. Tell her I'll get him there safe. I don't know if I'll get a chance to email you again -- Internet cafes are as scarce as good beer at the Bronze -- but maybe by spring I'll be there and show you where all the cool London vampires hang out._

Love, Spike

 

 

The truck broke down in Tanner, on the south coast of the Seward Peninsula. It was a bleak place, but they spent a few days in a tin-sided house there, waiting out a storm. The house was abandoned, as was most of the town, but the rooms were clean, if a bit dusty, and the sheets smelled okay. It was cold, and Spike spent most of the time in bed with Blue. Angel had taken a room at the other end of the house, and for once they didn't have to try to be quiet. Not that Blue ever tried, but sometimes Spike remembered that not everyone was fortunate enough, these days, to have a willing partner in pleasure.

Not that Angel would know what to do if he found one.

Spike thought of Buffy sometimes. He'd given her up a long time ago. She was right to move on. They weren't ever really together anyway. Never made each other happy. Well, she made him happy -- it didn't take much -- but he never made her happy. Maybe the new boyfriend did. Besides, Blue needed him. And everything had changed anyway. Buffy was the past. The present was the cold and the blasted land and the demons. There was no future that he could see. Just today over and over.

But maybe -- no. Maybe they'd get to Europe. And when they did, well, he knew what Buffy wanted. She'd said so often enough. She'd see human Angel, dump her current boyfriend, and set up house. And maybe then Angel would smile again.

And then he and Blue would go off somewhere and find some demons to kill. She was good at that, even without the whole portal-opening thing. And he'd be happy. He owed it to the others, the ones who didn't survive, to be happy enough for all of them.

 

 

The third day in Tanner he sent Blue to the abandoned general store to get supplies. Then he pulled his coat tight around him and walked along the gravel street, past derelict houses, to the little one-story library. It was noon, but almost dark here just below the arctic circle.

He settled down at a scarred formica table to read his book by flashlight. He just needed a refresher course. Years ago, well, decades ago, he and Dru had stolen a single-engine plane to escape Germany. They knew better, yeah, but Nazis tasted so good. Even now, his mouth watered with memories of those well-fed monsters in human face. But the idyll couldn't last. Dru was a bit too noticeable, with her constant mutterings about the future and the darkness and blood everywhere. So in the dead of night, they'd taken out a few guards at the airport, climbed into a plane, and started it up.

He was younger then, and more impulsive. It wasn't until he got the damned thing into the air that he remembered he had to land it.

They were lucky they had vampire healing, that's all he could say.

Couldn't count on that now, at least for Angel. So Spike did what he used to do well, back when he was human-- study up.

He took the book, and a few others he'd once owned and loved. He left a big bill at the circulation desk. The librarian would probably never return, and anyway, US money was useless. But at least he wasn't stealing. Not really. Just making a longterm borrow.

Of course, he still had to steal the airplane. The owner was long gone, and it was all for a good cause, so Spike managed to ignore any pangs of guilt. It helped that he was so damned good at this -- breaking and entering and hotwiring. It was too bad, really, that he'd been born into a genteel family, and then reborn into a prominent vampire family, because his real vocation wasn't gentleman-scholar or murdering aristocrat marauder. There was a good reason he was a champion at Grand Theft Auto.

He sat in the cockpit, focusing the flashlight on the diagram of the ignition system, and smiled. He could do it. Get them away. Save them all. Escape this wasteland and ....

Go home again, to London. Get Rupert to make him a real cup of tea. Drink Xander's last pint of ale. Watch Groundhog Day again with Dawn. See Buffy (just see her, that was all).

He went back to the house and collected Blue and Angel and the few possessions they couldn't leave behind -- Spike's CDs and Blue's catsuit and Angel's photos of his friends -- and headed down the empty street to the little airstrip.

Angel protested when he saw the plane, and who could blame him. It looked like a tube of toothpaste with wings and skis. But Blue shoved him aboard, and Angel fell silent as Spike crossed the wires and the engine came to life. And then they took off. He could feel Angel's knees pressing hard against the back of his seat, and after one particular gut-wrenching turn, Angel's hand gripping the headrest. "Relax," Spike said in his most sincere tone, over the roar of the engine, "I know what I'm doing."

He didn't. It was scary when he looked ahead and he saw a white landscape merging into white ice and then a white horizon. But he had the instrument panel, and his senses, and when he closed his eyes, he could feel the right direction. That way, there. That was towards home. He opened his eyes quick, before Angel saw and complained that he was flying blind. And he flew, blind, into the whiteness.

It was most of an hour before he felt it -- the wrongness. The tightness. The air compressing so much around him that he couldn't breathe, not that he needed to breathe, but still.... He was in a vacuum and he could hardly see. "Angel," he said as loudly and calmly as he could. "You okay?"

"Sure. As okay as I can be, trapped in a tin can 500 feet above the ice with you driving." Angel sounded fairly happy about it. He knew what lay ahead, if they survived.

"Blue?"

It took her longer to reply, because she had to analyze the situation first. "I am well."

So it was just him, feeling the tightness. The only demon in these parts.

He took a deep breath and yelled, "We're setting down," and before Angel could object, he pointed the nose and cut the throttle, and with a thump and a bump, they slid onto the ice, casting up a wake of the whitest of snow.

They finally skidded to a halt. Spike pushed open the hatch and clambered out of the cockpit, sliding down to the ice. Angel followed, and then Blue. It was full dark, but the snow caught all the light and reflected it, and Spike breathed in the icy bits of air. Silently he yanked out their bags and set them down.

Angel was regarding him with a shrewdness that reminded him they'd known each other, one way or another, in three different centuries.

Angel didn't ask what was wrong.

Blue did.

"Can't go any further, love." He gestured to the whiteness ahead. "There's a demon barrier there somewhere. I can feel it."

Blue frowned. "There is no god barrier."

"Right. So you can walk through. Walk over the border. Keep going."

She tilted her head and looked at him. Her eyes were eerie, almost as pale as the moonlit snow. "I will not come back."

"Yeah. I know." He pulled her close, trying to feel her warmth through the layers of parka. He knew she wouldn't stay long in this dimension. Not for him. It wasn't a place for her.

He bent and put his mouth to her ear, her wool cap scratching at his nose. "You go on. Take care of Angel. Once you get to a settlement, he'll know what to do." He licked at the bit of exposed lobe, tasting the taste of her. When they first made love, she had almost no taste. But now there was salt there, and heat, and something sharper than sorrow.

Then he let her go, and she stood before him, her parka glowing royal blue against the milky landscape. She reached out and stroked his cheek just once, then picked up her bag and Angel's and trudged towards land.

Angel waited. He was all bundled up, only his dark eyes visible between his scarf and his ski cap. His hands were gloved two layers deep and jammed into his pockets. It was probably 30 below, but at least there was no wind. Angel would make it. Blue would make sure of it.

Spike said, "You got something to trade?"

"Bullets. Rubies. Two Willie Mays rookie cards. If they don't work, she can scare 'em into cooperating."

"Good. Okay. Well. I'll see ya." That sounded stupid, so Spike said quickly, "I'll winter there in Tanner. Probably head southeast when the days get long again."

Angel nodded, and started after Blue. But then he turned and came back with that same unhurried stride. He took hold of Spike's shoulders and pulled him close. Spike could feel on his forehead the warmth of Angel's mouth even through the scarf.

And then Angel released him. "Be good."

"Be happy," Spike replied, and watched him walk away.

He waited until they'd reached the slightly higher level that was land, and only then did he get back in the plane and fly east.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I forgot that Spike had never flown IN a plane before, much less flown one himself. Let's just say he pretended to be a virgin flyer in A Hole in the World to make Angel feel better. Also I have never been of the opinion that Illyria is a demon. She's a god. Predates demons and humans both.


	2. Arctic Autumn

The sun set in late October, and didn't rise properly again until February. The vampire in Spike would have liked this very well if it weren't so cold. Too many years in California had weakened his immunity, and he found himself that Arctic winter bundling up, wearing two pairs of socks and two sweatshirts under his coat and even, sometimes, covering his face with a poncy scarf to protect it from the wind.

But it was pleasant to go out at any hour of the day without worrying about burning up or coming down with a crippling migraine. (He concluded he still had a sun allergy, only now it wasn't fatal.) And the twilight was a soft gray that made the harsh icy world seem ghostly and ethereal. It was a melancholy sort of half-light, and matched Spike's mood.

He was lonely. Oh, there were plenty of people around. The winter had brought those in hiding back to town, and Spike helped keep them there. He still had the stolen Piper Cub (the owner had been out on his fishing boat when the tidal wave from the W&H earthquake hit), and he used it to ferry villagers to the little Nome hospital and to pick up medications and supplies and relatives for his neighbors. He learned to read the instrument panel, fly low over the tussocks of tundra meadow and high over the mountains, and land on ice fields. And he followed up the occasional account of a demon adventurous enough, or stupid enough, to venture this far north. He did his part to keep the Arctic area demon-free.

Except for himself, of course.

Sometimes he flew west, into the darkness, over Diomede Island and the rest of the strait and towards the hulking gray mass of Chukchi. He usually got within a half-mile of land before he turned back. He could try to push on through, he supposed, but he didn't fancy damaging the plane, or himself for that matter.

It was just longing that made him do it. No real need. He just wanted. That old demon wanting.

But he was a demon, and glad of it, because he could kill the others of his kind, the ones that brought only destruction and chaos and pain. And because he could see in the dark, and it was dark most of the time. And because he could go long distances without flagging– and he would have a very long way to go come spring.

He just couldn't leave this continent. No big deal. Not worth fretting about.

He wasn't always alone. His mostly native neighbors showed their gratitude in concrete ways– leaving a can of aviation fuel by the airplane, firewood and sacks of fish and muskox burger patties and boxes of PopTarts on his steel porchsteps,. One particularly discerning anonymous friend came in the middle of the night to deposit zip-lock bags full of frozen blood, discreetly wrapped in brown paper. Spike didn't exactly need blood anymore, but it still gave him a charge, helped healing, and made him nostalgic. And this was good stuff, polar bear, he thought. He thought of the Alaskan Indians of the past, eating the bear's heart to take in its strength, and felt stronger himself.

Occasionally a woman would come by and linger. But he'd given up on love (again). He'd always thought he was good at it, good at taking care of women, attending to them, being devoted. But they always left him in the end, so he must be doing something wrong. Of course, it took Dru a century to leave him, and that was because she thought he was in love with the Slayer. Buffy -- well, he never had her to begin with. And Blue, she never meant to stay anyway. Nothing personal. But even Harmony left him, and with good reason.

No. Wasn't the sort of man that women stuck with. Too bad he wasn't the sort who didn't care.

Anyway. Well. He was happy. For the first time in his unlife, he was surrounded by people who thought well of him. And he could have bathed in it, if all that approval wouldn't have frozen before it hit the ground. He would stay here forever, he would, but for the cold.

And the demons in control of the West. He owed it to Wes and Gunn and Lorne and Fred to fight them... even though he knew he'd lose. No one else was fighting, he was pretty sure of that. From what he could tell from the scattered reports of travellers and messages on the single short-wave in town, the US and Canadian governments had given up and ceded the west to the demons. The Marines and Army were busy with that invasion of Cuba -- no demons there, of course, but maybe that was the point the cowboy president was trying to make.

But Spike wasn't going to give up, no matter how safe it was here, and how nice the neighbors were.

He was starting to plan for the trip south, secretly packing food tins and bottles of water, stockpiling the bear's blood, plotting his course on a map, figuring he would depart in the dead of night, okay, leave a thank-you note behind, a promise to return, all that. But February came, and the sun finally rose -- at noon the first time, but earlier and earlier every day-- and every day he had a reason not to leave. Mrs. Ukikuk had to be dropped off for surgery, and she expected him to pick her up three days later. And Greg Nanwilik mentioned seeing foxes with their heads ripped off on the north coast of the peninsula -- clearly a demon at work. And the Annual Ice Festival was coming up, and he'd promised to fly to Nome to pick up the kegs.

In March he got serious. Really serious. The days were lengthening, and pretty soon, real soon, he'd face twenty hours of daylight, or rather twenty hours huddled indoors with a cold cloth on his head. And the reports from the south were heartbreakingly bad. He got serious. Collected cans. Smiled a lot so that people would remember him fondly.

He came back one dim afternoon, landing the plane after an emergency trip to Nome, thinking longingly of a fire and some soup and the old tape of the American Idol 3 results show. (And maybe Law and Order after that.) He harnessed up the plane and gathered his pack and headed towards the motley collection of shacks that made up the little town. But then, from a long way away, came the sharp thwaps of helicopter blades against the dry air. He shaded his eyes from the twilight and waited, and waited -- sound carried a long way in the cold, and, hey, vampire hearing -- and waited until he was chilled through

Finally the black dot appeared in the gray sky, and got bigger and bigger, and then, kicking up a lot of unseemly noise and wind and snow and dust, it set down like a pregnant matron settling into an overstuffed chair.

Demons wouldn't fly a Eurocopter. He was pretty sure of that. So he waited, relatively relaxed, just one hand clenched in its glove and the other in his pocket, on the revolver he had liberated from a Cherzig demon (okay, so he'd been wrong about demons not using guns -- he was still right about the copter).

The door opened and out jumped a black fur hood and a red duffle bag and a red parka and red boots with black leggings in between, and he recognized the jump, and he recognized the walk, and he recognized the sweet curve of thigh and calf. And he withdrew his hand from his pocket, and unclenched the fist, and he took a harsh breath of the frozen air. It was worse than any demon.

She ducked down and ran out from under the whirling blades, and then she looked back and raised her hand, and with a great gust of wind, the copter rose and zoomed off.

Within him burst something worse than fear, more dangerous than despair. Hope.

She came to him, her hands out, and blindly he took them, and bent down to accept her kiss. It was just a brief meeting of mouths through her scarf. They never did this, even when they were lovers -- exchange friendly kisses. She must have learned that in Europe.

He hadn't kissed her in, oh, forever. They'd held each other all night those last three nights, but only their bodies touched. That last day, their hands had joined and burst into flame, but they hadn't kissed. She'd kissed Angel, but she hadn't -- well, it was all long past. He couldn't remember the last time they'd kissed -- probably blocked it, because there was so much pain in between.

Her eyes were bright and laughing, and her cheeks, what he could see of them, were pink with the cold. "Let's go inside," he said, taking her bag from her arm, and she said, "Hi, Spike," and they walked, holding hands– her idea, he thought– across the airstrip and the snow-rutted field to his little aluminum house. He glanced back and nodded to the neighbors who had come out to see the noisy helicopter, and stayed to watch the girl.

They didn't have much to gossip about here in Tanner. This should hold them till summer.

"When's the pilot comin' back?" Spike said as he pushed open the door. Of course he was coming back. Buffy wouldn't be staying. Good. He wanted her safe and happy somewhere else.

"Two days. Can you keep me in food and water that long?"

"Sure." This broke through all his defenses. Two days. Not enough and way too much. He pulled the door shut and leaned back against it while she searched the wall for a lightswitch. "I take it Angel got to you safely. So how'd they find you?"

With a small cry of triumph, she found the switch and flipped it, and wonder of wonders, the generator held on, and light blossomed, and she gazed around at the bare little living room. It was clean -- Mrs. Lukluk came in every couple days, more to keep an eye on him than anything else, but she always picked up while she was snooping. There was just a couch with a blanket thrown over it, and a pile of books and a pile of CDs where a coffee table might be, and the TV that received no signal and the VCR and Playstation and a crate full of tapes and videogames.

Buffy found what she wanted, or didn't find what she didn't want, because she turned to him with a smile. "They walked to one of the Siberian villages, and Angel rented a truck, and they drove to an airport, and he chartered a plane. And they flew to London, and there we were waiting."

"Yeah. Glad they got there safe. Good about Angel being human, huh?"

She'd gotten her arm caught in her parka sleeve, and he had to go help her get extricated, and finally, as she sat on the couch to pull off her boots, she said, "Yes, I guess it's good. Angel -- well, he doesn't seem to like it that much."

Spike didn't want to believe this, to see so much longing and striving come down to that. "He lost a lot, that final day -- all his friends. So being human isn't much of a trade."

She made a little face. "But maybe it's nothing new. Maybe I just never noticed. Was he always so unhappy?"

Spike gave this some thought. "Well, he was pretty jolly when he was Angelus."

She rolled her eyes and laughed, and he laughed too, and, emboldened, he said, "But having you has to make him happy."

"Having me?" She stared at him as she set her boots next to the bookpile. "He doesn't have me. I mean, I still care about him. But everything has changed. I had to move on. And he's not in any shape --" She stopped and sucked in a breath. "I was worried that you'd be... be like him. Blasted. Lost in the past."

"No. I'm okay." Didn't lose longtime friends, or a son, or a home. Didn't lose a world, and a reason. He still had this village, and Dawn safe somewhere else and learning Italian, and Xander drinking a pint for him every night, and his own little war. And Buffy here, for two days. "Better than okay."

"Up to pretty good?" she teased.

"All the way to bloody good."

She leaned back on the couch and patted the seat beside her. After a moment's hesitation, he sat down, and she took his hand in both of hers and set it on her lap. "Illyria. The one who came with Angel. She's gone away. Through a dimensional portal."

Buffy sounded so sincere, so concerned, that he nodded just as soberly. "Yeah. Knew she was headed out. She fought brave with us, for a long time, got Angel safe to you. Not her world, nor her fight, but Blue stuck with us."

She abruptly dropped his hand -- well, actually she shoved it back at him -- and rose and went her bag by the door and started rummaging through it. But as soon as he got up himself, she came to him and put her arms around him, and before he could speak, she said fiercely. "I hate it that you have a pet name for her."

"I just --"

"I hate it." Her hands slid up his arms to his shoulders and the sides of his head, and her fingers tangled in his hair. "I hate it that she knows all the words to all your favorite songs."

"Well, we used to sing, to keep our spirits up," Spike said. Buffy -- Buffy always got to him, in the end. Always took him by surprise. "And she's got a memory like a Cray 1."

"I hate it–" this she whispered, as if someone might overhear-- "I hate it that you made love to her more times than you made love to me."

This silenced him for a moment. Then he said, "I didn't keep count."

"She did. Every encounter. Every orgasm. Every hour. And since I was her new best friend, she told me. In detail."

Spike pulled away, leaned back from her. He didn't know where she was going. Was pretty sure he didn't want to go along. "She likes detail, does Blue."

"She was surprised to find out I knew all about your skills. You never told her that we were lovers."

"Buffy-- " he sighed. He thought maybe he was done with women (again). They were maybe too hard for even him to understand. "That was over a long time ago. Years."

"But it wasn't ever over really. We just -- just went on hiatus."

"We're not a sodding television show, Slayer."

"Why didn't you tell her?" Buffy's face was pugnacious. "Were you... ashamed? That we'd been together?"

Spike decided he was bloody sick of irony, and tired of what goes around coming around, and as far as nothing new under the sun, well, he was ready to consign that truism to history's dustbin right smart. "It wouldn't have made any sense to her. Not then. She pretty much thought she invented me. Didn't see me as having an independent existence. It's not like she knew you. And whatever she didn't know, didn't exist."

He pulled all the way away, turned away, walked away. Just to the stack of CDs, and he stood there and couldn't think of what he wanted to play. Couldn't remember just now what he and Blue used to sing to keep their spirits up (and drive Angel insane), or what he used to play to get Dru in the mood, or what Buffy danced to at the Bronze. He felt her behind him, felt her hand stretching out to him, and turned before she took hold of his collar and throttled him, or whatever she was planning.

She was looking stubborn and miserable. "I don't want you to be with anyone else."

"Yeah. I get that." He let her edge closer to him, take his hands.

"But I don't want you to be alone either."

"Big of you."

"You're mad at me."

He brought her hands up and kissed them, first one and then the other, then let her go. "Just annoyed. It will pass. Let's have some dinner. Got a choice between Chef Boyardee and grilled salmon."

"Hey --"

From the doorway to the kitchen, he turned back. He'd never been able to resist that tone. Pleading and commanding. Pure Buffy.

"Do you love her?"

"Blue?" He considered this for a moment, then said, "Nah. Fond of her. But she's too far above me, goddess, ancient deity, all that. And too high-maintenance. Like Drusilla, only not so sweet. And not so insane. And–"

"Spike." She came close, almost right up to him, and put her hands on his chest, palms flat against his hoodie front. She was smiling again. "I'm cold all the way through. Can I have a bath before dinner?"

She looked so sweet, her face a bit plumper now than that last year, the way it had been when he first saw her in the Bronze -- a happy, healthy girl who just happened to be the slayer. "Sure. Take a bit of a while, though, to get the water hot."

 

 

For a real bath, he had to locate a couple real bath towels and supplement the hot water heater output with a couple pots boiled on the stove. He really was good with women, he reminded himself, lighting the last candle around the tub, filling the glass on the rim with half of a wine cooler, and switching off the electric light. He knew what they liked. What Buffy liked particularly. He ushered her into the bathroom, pointing out the jasmine-scented suds. "Bath and Body Works. Found it in your bag."

She smiled at him and started to strip off her clothes. Time for him to go -- but she reached out and grabbed his wrist. "You get in too. I want to see if I can work a comb through those dreadlocks of yours. You look as ragtag as those days in the basement. But -- " she added, "it's sort of a cute look."

"Blue liked it," he said, and dodging her fist, he picked her up bodily, his hands spanning her bare little waist, and set her down in the bubbles. And while she got herself arranged, he took off his shirt and jeans, and refused to think, and found a comb for her, and finally got in front of her. And she slid up right behind him and started combing through his hair.

Her legs were alongside his, and her breasts were pushed up against his back, and her rough little curls were tickling at his ass. She chattered as she worked the comb through his tangles, talking about Xander and Giles and Rome and London and taking every opportunity, he thought, to rub her nipples over his skin. Maybe it was an invitation -- he didn't know, and, considering their history, he wasn't about to guess. So he just let her tug at the knots in his hair, and exclaim that he was too thin, and he told himself she wasn't coming on to him, because she lay in his arms quiet and unreachable that whole night before he burned up, and if she wouldn't open to him then, she would hardly open to him now.

But he wasn't supposed to be thinking anyway.

So when she asked, he told her about the demons that were occupying the west, all the varieties he'd catalogued, and now she had her fingers in his hair, working at the last tangle, and they talked shop just like old times. Then, with that sudden Slayer grace, she slid around and onto him, her hands on his shoulders, her legs twining around his back, her hot little pussy jamming onto his cock.

Okay, so maybe she was coming on to him.

If he didn't have so much pride, he would just come right now-- but she was pressing into him and crooning something against his neck, and he had to concentrate and listen, even if his cock was as full of joy as it had ever been.

"I thought you were dead -- twice. I kept trying to pick up and go on, but --"

Now he could feel her tears inching down his throat, onto his chest. "Baby, listen, I'm sorry–"

"No." She pulled away and glared at him, and dug her fingers into his shoulders. "You listen. Listen. The first time, oh, I was kind of okay. You died in glory. You'd want me to be happy, and so I tried. And then I heard you were alive again, but you didn't come get me, except for that one time, and you didn't try hard. Didn't call me. And I got mad. I wasn't going to chase after you. No, I wasn't. You should come to me. And apologize for making me wait."

He started to respond again, but this time she clapped her hand over his mouth. "Shut up. Listen. I kept waiting for you to call me, and then – and then we got the reports of the battle, and the earthquake, and I thought --"

She took her hand off his mouth, and put her head back on his chest, but he knew better now and didn't try to speak. She whispered, "And I thought you were dead. Again. Lost to me. And -- and I'd done that awful thing, refused to call you, just being a bitch. A diva. Like you weren't the one who always reached out, every time before. Like just this once I couldn't reach out first... and so when I heard about the apocalypse, I kind of crashed, you know."

She was trembling in his arms, and he kissed her face, her cheek, her strong dainty jaw. "It's okay."

"No, it isn't. I got involved with this scuzzy guy, and he got all weird, and started kind of stalking me, and I had to break his arm--"

Spike started to smile at this, then when she pulled back to look at him, he ruthlessly tamed his expression. "Bad year, pet, for everyone."

"Worse for you, and I didn't even know it, and I was being stupid and self-destructive. I thought no one would ever, ever love me like you did, and I deserved it, because I never loved you back, not really, not enough. Not enough to risk my heart or my pride."

"You're here now."

"Yeah." She quieted, nestling closer to him, moving a bit, driving him mad. "I had to wait till the weather broke to do it, to fly over the Pole, and every day seemed like too long, and I couldn't find any way to reach you to tell you."

"It was a nice surprise."

"Yes." She closed her eyes, whispered, "You were surprised. I came to you. That's good, isn't it?"

"The best, baby." She always did this to him, making him happy while breaking his heart. "We'll make it the best two days--"

Now she leaned back, stared at him. "Two days?"

"Your ride's coming back in two days."

"But-- " That little frown creased her forehead. "But I'm not leaving you here. I came to get you. Take you back with me."

Oh. That hurt even more. "But I can't go. Demon, remember? And there's that demon barrier."

"Is that all?" She dropped a kiss on his mouth, then drew away to say, "The barrier's only two thousand feet high. That's higher than any demon can fly. But not higher than my copter. You're coming back with me."

So he kissed her, and stroked her, and told her he loved her, and all through the long arctic night he held her and made love to her. And it wasn't till the next morning that he told her that he had to let her go, because his mission was here, on this broken continent, to fight on in a war he couldn't win, but couldn't give up. They would be apart again, only this time, it might break her heart too. And that he wasn't sure he could survive.

It took them an hour, but they settled it. He'd come back with her, but just for a little while, long enough to see Dawn and the others one more time, and to collect some real weapons, and to consult a few maps, and maybe to talk some strategy with Rupert. And then he'd fly back, set down somewhere in the Rockies, and start his one-demon war.

"Two weeks," he said, turning onto his side and pressing up against her bare back.

"A month," she said, and wiggled so her breast settled into his hand.

He sighed. "Three weeks."

"Done." She wiggled again, and he would probably have agreed to a year if she kept that up. "Look how mature we are! Compromise and everything."

"That's just because we agreed not to have sex again till we settled it."

"Well, that shows how advanced we are, that we agreed on that. And now we agree on this."

The sun was rising finally, and a slice of light came in through the curtains. It would be daylight for four hours. Spring was here, and his heart was aching, and he pulled her close and said, "We'll have fun, pet. Now tell me -- are Becks and Posh Spice still together?"

Buffy moaned as his roving hand found its target. And breathlessly she said, "Yeah, but JLo married some singer. Never got back with Ben."

"JLo survived? I guess W&H took care to get its clients out before the earthquake."

"You think she has a better ass than I do."

Loyally he said, "No one has a better ass than you do. Now jostle it just a bit, love, that's my girl." Three weeks, he reminded himself, to make up for never.


	3. London Spring

The daffodils were in bloom in Green Park, waving in the slight breeze, and Dawn listened patiently, or at least pretended to, as he recited from Wordsworth:

_I WANDER'D lonely as a cloud_  
 _That floats on high o'er vales and hills,_  
 _When all at once I saw a crowd,_  
 _A host of golden daffodils;_  
 _Beside the lake, beneath the trees,_  
 _Fluttering and dancing in the breeze._

"Very poncey," she pronounced, tossing a handful of bread to the pigeons. "I wish Nigel would bring me flowers."

Nigel was the junior watcher who currently entranced her, though not enough to make her make the first move. "He has to come to me," she told him. "That way he'll value me more."

"I'm glad your sister didn't wait for me to come to her." Not that Dawn ought to be emulating her sister.

"Uh, yeah, after twenty-nine years of you chasing her, she finally magnanimously turned and walked a few steps towards you." Dawn glanced back over her shoulder at him. "I mean, her flying over the Pole to the arctic was kind of dramatic. And you're here, and that's good. But it wasn't like she had to worry about you rejecting her."

Spike picked moodily at the strap of her backpack, which sat beside him on the park bench. "I could have rejected her if I wanted to."

"Sure, Spike. You are so totally in control. Or is it in thrall?" She came back to the bench and flung herself down and heaved a theatrical sigh. "No one is ever going to love me like you love Buffy."

"Count yourself lucky on that score, bit. Takes a demon to love this hard." He reached over and tugged at her shiny long hair. "But someone will love you very well pretty soon. And once I check out his _bona fides_ , I might let you go out with him."

She made the pro forma protest that she could go out with whomever she pleased, and neither of them mentioned that by the time this devoted fellow came around, Spike would be long gone. "Give me some money, Spike. I want to buy an ice."

Like an indulgent big brother, he felt in his pocket and pulled out a quid, and handed it to her, and hoped that would be enough for a treat at the little stand by the street. He wasn't sure about prices anymore. The pound was holding pretty steady, and so was the Euro, but the disaster in the US had caused galloping inflation in some sectors. And he could only liberate so much of Angel's cash (left so temptingly on the bureau) before he got caught.

He watched Dawn stalk across the misty green like she had something to prove, and when she was in queue at the stand (dancing restlessly from one foot to another– she was too much the American to wait patiently), he strolled over to the bed of daffodils. Without pausing, he reached down and broke off one (the one right next to the sign, "Please leave these flowers to bring delight to us all") and took it back to the bench. He unbuckled Dawn's backpack and slid the flower into the main compartment, on top of her Sumerian dictionary. He'd just fastened the bag when Dawn reappeared with her paper cup and two plastic spoons.

He got the last bite of ice, then just to show who was boss, she left the cup and spoons on the bench as she walked away. He was still too British to leave it there, so he sighed and picked the trash up and followed her. Once they got to the street, he made her wait as he made a great show of disposing of the rubbish in the barrel. "No wonder you Americans have such a bad reputation."

"We got to the moon," she said defiantly, and then fell silent. America as she had known it was over. All the humans had fled the west and left the demons in charge, and the rest of the country was being run by a cabal of elected dictators.

"Yeah." They reached the mews that led to their building's back entrance, and he said, "Listen. Buffy and me, we're going to take a couple days, drive north to the Lake District. You keep an eye on Angel, okay? Call me if he's, you know, more miserable than usual."

"Oh, right. Here's what I'll do. I'll say that I'm going to call you and have you come back and do your cheerful happy example thing, and Angel'll get all panicky and promise me he won't be miserable, if only I'll spare him having to listen to you sing all your favorite happy songs."

"Good tactic, bit. And take a photo of him trying to smile, will you? Just so I'll have something to remember him by."

Dawn made a stricken expression, her mouth stretching like a rubber band.

"Yeah, just like that."

Dawn's mouth went back to its normal sulky droop. "I can't believe you're going and leaving him with us."

"Not much good to me, is he, human that he is? You be nice to him, niblet. He's been through a lot."

"So have you," she grumbled, "and you don't complain whenever I play my CDs too loud. Well, you do, but only because you don't like Good Charlotte."

And then, friends again, they resumed their walk back to the Watchers' Council building. "It's funny," she remarked, "that you're leaving just when Buffy relents and lets you live with us."

So much for friends. "She's just giving me space on my holiday."

"Space in her bed."

"It's a big bed, bit."

"So you're leaving again. It's like payback, right? For all the times she left you?"

The pubs were just opening for the evening, and he passed one he used to drink at when he came down from Oxford– it looked exactly the same, the sign saying Rose and Crown split a few inches from the bottom just as he remembered. He needed a drink now. Dawn was old enough -- but no. Best handle her question unaided by alcohol. "I just have a fight to fight. _I could not love thee, dear, so much, Loved I not honor more_."

"You do notice," Dawn said, "that your poetry habit gets worse the longer you're in London."

"Yeah. Drinking tea, eating Marmite, watching Eastenders. And reciting poetry. London vices."

Dawn walked along beside him, her arm brushing his. "You think it's all about honor."

He sighed. "I don't know what to call it. Just know I have to do it. Buffy understands. "

"You mean she says she understands. 'Course you won't be here when she's off in a corner crying because she's alone."

It tugged at him, that prospect. But Buffy was the Slayer. She understood the exigencies of war. "She's not alone. Got you and Rupert and her friends. And she'll have a new boyfriend soon enough, once it becomes known she's free again."

"Oh, right. You're all for that, huh? I don't think so."

"Not my call. I'm not going to be like Angel was, expecting her to go on forever believing she can love only me. We both know that's not true. She'll find someone new. And that's good."

It sounded hollow even to him, and he believed it. Buffy had to go on living. That's what he wanted most of all, that his girls were as happy as they could be, even if he couldn't see it.

Dawn stuck out her chin. "Well, I'm not moving on. I won't ever get another friend like you. I promise. And you promise too. We're the only ones for us, okay?"

"Okay," he said, and let her take his hand. "Not like there's any replacement for the likes of you."

She turned up her face at him, smiling. "The real Dawn. Accept no substitutes." And then, she whispered, "I can't believe you're going," and ran ahead, her hair streaming behind her.

She was beautiful, and didn't believe it, and that was half her charm. She wasn't like Buffy, who knew to the decimal point how pretty she was on any given day. Dawn was coltish and insecure in her arrogant way, and he wished he had a few years to be near so he could select some nice boy who would make her believe that she was more than just an accident.

She'd stopped at the light to wait for him. He came up beside her and bumped her with his hip. "Hey. Want to tell you."

"What?" She wouldn't look at him. She'd never been one to hide her feelings.

And neither was he. Quickly, before she could get away, he said, "I'm glad you happened. World's a better place with you in it."

She stopped short in the middle of the walk, the other pedestrians eddying around her, and threw her arms around him. He wasn't ready for the onslaught, and staggered back a pace into the brick wall of a printer's shop. "Hey, now," he said inadequately, patting her back.

"You too. I'm glad you happened too," she whispered, and then swiped her wet cheek across his t-shirt front, leaving a blotch behind.

 

 

He and Buffy spent the day in bed in their little rental cottage, examining maps of the Rockies and arguing amiably about tactics. As soon as the sun went down, they took the rowboat out on the broad silvery lake. The twilight was so still that they could hear the little waves hit the pebbled beach. Buffy rowed, her thin strong arms glistening in the faint moonlight, and Spike lay back and watched her, trailing his hand over the side.

He felt a stirring of the water around his fingers and closed them quickly, and with a shout of triumph, brought the trout up and held it up, silver and wriggling, for her to admire.

"Ewww, Spike," she said, pulling both up to chest and leaning back away from him. "Throw it back!"

"You liked trout well enough last night at that inn, when it was fried up so nice and covered with little almonds."

"Well, it wasn't all alive and slimy then. Throw it back."

Sullenly he cast the fish back into the lake, where it wriggled once and struck out for safer waters. He remembered his time in the Initiative cellblock, and how he felt when he escaped, and felt better. Freedom was a good.

"And rinse that hand," his little tyrant added, "or it's not going anywhere in the vicinity of my pants."

So he grinned and made a big show of leaning over and dipping not just his hand but his whole arm into the lake. And balanced like that, he was easy prey for the likes of the slayer, who pulled one oar hard, so the boat shot around, and he tumbled into the water.

It was deep, and dark, and cold, and for a second or two he forgot he didn't need to breathe and probably couldn't drown, and then he remembered, and decided to stay put, a few feet under the surface. He went into game-face to see better in the darkness, and looked up and saw the silver hull of the rowboat. It was moving forward, and then stopped, and then he heard a cry, muffled by the water. "Spike?"

He knew his slayer. He waited. And after a minute, there was a splash, and her little body plummeted past him, and he reached out and snagged her arm and pulled her up with him to the surface.

She was spluttering and smacking at him, and he pulled her close, and she whispered against his neck, "Brute. You ruined my hair."

He efficiently removed her t-shirt and tossed it into the boat waiting politely a yard away. Then he pulled off her shorts, and she squirmed against him, her legs going around his waist, her hands undoing his buttons. "Aren't you cold?" he murmured, gathering her in.

"I'm a slayer. When I have a vampire in my sights, I don't feel the cold."

But she was shivering, so they made it quick, and soon, with only a few mishaps, they tumbled back into the rowboat and made for the cottage and a hot shower. And they stayed up most of the night in front of the fire, whittling stakes and reminiscing about demons gone by, and Spike leaned back against the wing chair and kept his bare foot right next to hers. This was a happy time he'd remember in the future, when times weren't so happy and Buffy was far away.

She was happy too, laughing and touching him and humming snatches of Dave Matthews songs. (As a sign of his devotion, he let her put that CD on the stereo.) She was really happy. It made him happy to see her so happy. He was happy, yeah, that she could be so happy, considering everything. Considering that they'd finally found some joy together in this benighted world. Considering that they were going to be apart very soon.

"Good that you can laugh, pet."

She screwed up her face in the sort of expression Dawn used so often. "Well, yeah. It's because you're so funny."

"I mean, considering."

She squitched her toes to tickle his ankle. "You're thinking about the future. Well, don't. Let's just enjoy the moment."

"Want you to enjoy the future too," he said stubbornly.

"I will. Don't you worry. I've learned that from you. Just take pleasure, and don't borrow sorrow."

She smiled at him, all beamish, and he smiled back, because sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof, and all that, and tomorrow would come whether they laughed or wept. And he did want her to be happy, now and in the future, wanted her to be happy with him and without him.

It was just that she didn't seem to worry at all. He'd think she'd worry. Look ahead with dread. Expect the worst. Imagine the long empty days without him and, you know, blubber up and cling to him and beg him to stay.

But instead she carved her initials and his in a heart on the blunt side of the stake, and set it with a smile into the nylon weapons bag, and hummed along with the poncey song, and talked about how she hoped he'd actually get to use their whittlings when he got back to the States.

 

 

His hair was a disaster, and the dunk in the lake didn't help any. It was tangled and curly and rough, and he didn't like to think what it would be like in a few weeks, far from Buffy's nancy-girl conditioner. So once they got back to London, he made his way to a barber, one who knew enough not to expect a reflection in the mirror, and had it all cut off.

It was a mistake, he figured -- the barber kept talking nervously about a refund if that's what Spike wanted. Spike ran his hand over the bristles and shook his head. He made his way back to the Watchers' building, telling himself that it was better this way, better that Buffy be mad and disgusted. Make it easier to leave in the end. The receptionist's open mouth and the pointed fingers of the junior Watchers as he walked in, well, he counted on that. They never liked him being there anyway, tolerated him only because Buffy would kick their asses if they complained. Now they had something to talk about.

So he walked into Buffy's office, prepared for the worst, and that's what he got. Buffy took one look, and then another, and then glared at him. "Why didn't you wait to do that?" she demanded, her hands on her hips. "Why now?"

He started to explain about the knots and tangles, but she was up in his face-- against his body, pushing him against the door so it closed with a slam that vibrated through him. "Why didn't you wait?" she said, pulling at the buttons on his shirt. "You know Giles and Andrew are going to be here any minute for that meeting." She tugged the shirt free and started on his zipper. "We'll have to hurry."

"Wait--"

"We don't have time to wait."

But he managed to ask, "It's okay then?"

And she kissed him, both hands rubbing at the little bit of stubble left behind on his head, and she whispered, "You look really bad. And hot. Mmm. Hurry. Get out of those jeans, damnit."

It was good he had his back against the door, and her weight on him, because pretty soon -- too soon-- the door knob turned, and someone tried to shove it open, and Buffy had to yell, "Hang on, just a minute, wait!" while they stuffed themselves back into their clothes. By long habit, Spike went to smooth his hair, and got whiskers instead, and Buffy giggled and pulled down her blouse and threw open the door.

"Giles! And Andrew! Look who's here for the meeting!"

Andrew took one look at Spike and dropped his folder.

Rupert took one look and scowled and muttered, "No wonder no one is getting any work done out there. Or in here."

He set his files on the teak conference table and looked back over his shoulder. "Spike, your shirt is buttoned up wrong. And you seem to have misplaced your hair."

Spike, who had a soul and was redeemed now, didn't make any comments about Rupert's own missing hair. He just let the silence stretch on so that everyone knew he could make such comments if he wasn't, you know, all redeemed and souled up.

"Looking, uh, good, bro," Andrew said, scooting past Buffy then stopping stockstill, staring at the table and back at the two of them.

"No, you prat," Spike said, shoving his shirt back into his jeans and casting a significant look back at the door.

Rupert wasn't paying attention, at least until Andrew started giggling. But he focused as Buffy and Spike took their seats at the table. "Nice of you to join us," he said. "Now Spike, here is a cave map of the Glenwood area. I suspect the most likely nest for the Wiegand contingent would be here--"

Spike tried to concentrate, but Buffy was leaning against him, pretending to want a closer look at the map, and her hand was on his neck, teasing at the shorn hair and driving him mad, especially with her other hand, under the table, working its way up his thigh.

Rupert, with an exasperated noise, shoved the maps across the table and rose. "Just study them, and let me know if you have any questions."

He headed for the door, but stopped there and shook his head. "Oh, to be young again," he said, then shot a glance at Spike. "Or just to look that way."

Andrew piped up, "Mr. Giles, did you look like Spike when you were young?"

Rupert snorted. "No, Andrew, sorry to disappoint you, but I have never looked like a Leicester Square rent boy." He paused with his hand on the doorknob. "Well, perhaps for a month or two, when I first came down from Oxford. But then I was recalled to my duty."

"And put on the tweeds." Andrew nodded sagely and followed Rupert to the door. But then he dashed back and bent to whisper in Spike's ear, "Leave me the name of your hairdresser, okay, Spike?"

The door closed, and Buffy slid onto Spike's lap. "Now where were we?"

 

 

The next day-- the penultimate day-- he found Angel in the research library, which had been rebuilt to look like it looked in the old days. Spike couldn't smell Wesley here, after so long, but this is where the junior Watcher would have hung out. Angel must be finding comfort in that.

Giles had put Angel to work, just to keep him occupied. He was supposed to be drawing pictures of all the demons he'd seen that apocalypse night, but instead he was sketching the ones he'd lost.

Spike stood in the doorway and watched him shading in a charcoal picture of Gunn. Other black-and-white sketches were strewn around the table-- Fred smiling (she didn't look anything like Blue, Spike told himself), and Wesley frowning. Lorne-- gray instead of green. Cordelia, pretty and fierce. The boy named Connor.

"Hey."

Angel looked up. Stared at him for a moment, then went back to his sketch.

Spike tried again. "We're going out to the pub. Xander and Rupert and me. Andrew, if he promises not to pass out."

"Your last night here, is it?"

"Second-to-last." He would spend the last evening with Buffy and Dawn, and the last night just with Buffy. "Anyway. You want to go, we'll be leaving in a half hour or so."

"Let me finish up here." Angel licked the point of his pencil and applied it to Gunn's left eye. Dark, dark, Gunn's eyes were. But they brightened when he smiled, which was pretty often, considering that he worked at W&H. Spike missed him most of them all. Charlie had been a good drinking buddy. And a good fighting buddy too.

Angel was a real artist. Always had been. He used to sketch his victims, back when he had victims. He still sketched the dead. But there was love now, in every stroke.

Poor Angel. No light left in the world for him.

Sketch finished, Angel slid it to the side. "You look different."

"Got a haircut. Tired of dealing with the tangles."

"Sit down."

After a moment– just long enough to make the point that Spike was still Spike, and no one got to tell him what to do (except Dawn)– he took a seat across the table. "What?"

Angel rummaged around in a portfolio bag at his feet and pulled out a folder. "Here." He slid another sketch across the table.

Spike's heart yanked with an unexpected pleasure. It was him– a century or more ago, but him nonetheless, his pale hair pulled back in an untidy queue, his face innocent and arrogant. "Wow."

"That's Angelus's boy," Angel said. It was kind of obscure, but most everything Angel said these days was obscure. He was like a Zen vampire. Zen former vampire, anyway.

"Surprised you didn't dust me, look like that on my face."

"I tried often enough. You ran too fast." Angel pulled another sheet out of his drawing pad and laid it on the table in front of him. "You'd laugh as you ran. Jump over walls and trashbarrels and slices of sunlight. Call back insults." He picked up his pencil and said, "I should have dusted you. Worst minion ever."

"Never. Master vampire in making, that's what I was."

Angel fell silent, gazing speculatively at him. "You look like a soccer hooligan, your hair all shorn like that."

"Yeah, well. Rupert said I looked like a Leicester Square rent boy."

"So how does he know what a Leicester Square rent boy looks like?" He studied Spike again. "A skinny thug. That's you. No one'd ever believe you went to _Oxford_." He said the university's name with that familiar scornful emphasis. Sometimes... sometimes he seemed more Angelus than Angel. Paradoxical, now that he was human.

It was all so comradely that Spike ventured the sort of comment that he knew would get a rise. "Doesn't matter what you and Rupert think. Matters what Buffy thinks. And she thinks --"

"Fuck you."

"Yeah, that's just what she thinks." Spike grinned, and Angel's hand started to move across the blank page.

"Sit still, damnit."

It was so gratifying, Angel sketching him, that Spike tried to comply. But his jaw itched, and then his earlobe started twitching, and his finger-- all by itself-- started tapping on the walnut table, and Angel heaved a theatrical sigh. "There's something to be said for working from photographs. Not that you even sit still long enough to take a good photo. Just don't move your head, okay?"

And so Spike stared straight ahead, his mouth set, his earlobe set. Hurry, hurry, he thought very hard. His head itched, the new stubble dancing across his nerves. But this was important. This was what Angel wanted, and he might never see Angel again.

But there was a clock in his head, the ticking kind, that always kept track of how long it was going to be till the pub opened for the evening. And so he kept his head still, but shifted his eyes to see Angel's paper. A face was taking shape there, quickly, under the pencil's strokes.

"Well, that's the best I can do," Angel said, setting down the pencil and shoving the paper over.

Spike took it up and gazed at the face that gazed back at him-- the face of a Big Bad. Kind of a young, thin, fragile Big Bad. But still bad. "It's pretty good." He put a hand up to his cheekbone, then his stubbled hair, and compared them to the sketch. "Haven't been able to see myself, you know, since I cut off the hair. No wonder everyone's trying to drag me into corners and yank off my clothes."

Angel snorted, but in the end it turned into a laugh. "Who's everyone?"

"Well, not everyone." Spike considered the sketch and then reluctantly slid it back. "Just Buf--"

"I don't want to hear it." Angel went back into his portfolio and pulled out a manila envelope. He gathered up all the sketches, save the two of Spike, and straightened them into a neat packet. Then he slipped them into the envelope and held it out. "These are for you to take with you."

Spike took the envelope. His throat was too tight for speaking for a minute, but finally he said, "But-- but you sure you don't want them?"

"Nah. I have others. Want you to have their pictures. Remind you why you're fighting."

"Yeah." Spike held the envelope, running his thumbs over the ridge of paper inside. "Thanks. What about, you know, the ones of me?"

Angel cast a jaundiced look at the picture of NewSpike, and handed it over. "Give that to Buffy. I take it she'll appreciate it more than anyone else."

"And the other?"

"The other." Angel put his hand on the sketch of Spike when he was hardly more than William. "I think I'll keep that for myself."

 

 

Spike didn't protest when Buffy insisted on riding along on the plane to drop him off. They'd get another few hours together. So Dawn drove them to the corporate jetport and promised to pick Buffy up the next day. She hugged Spike hard and then let him go, gave Buffy a quick kiss, and ran back out in the rain to her car.

"She was quick about it," Spike said gruffly. "Good." He told himself he had the satellite phone, and he could call Dawn up every week or so, just to keep up with the footie scores.

"Yes," Buffy said, "hurts less that way, right? I'll be quick about it too, don't worry."

He didn't worry. She was being real easy about his leaving. No embarrassing tears, no wails, nothing that would shake his determination. No matter what Dawn had said, Buffy was okay with this. She was ready to let him go, and that was good.

As the pilot started the engines, they got settled in the aft of the jet. It wasn't quite as posh as the W&H plane, but nice enough, with a private cabin and a pull-down double bed. Once they were airborne, they slipped under the covers and nestled there, and Spike reminded himself that it meant something that she was flying all this way to see him off. Meant that she was reconciled to his leaving, and determined to do it right, without misery and despair, both of them acknowledging their past together, and ready for the future apart.

Buffy was so down with it, in fact, that she fell asleep in his arms. She looked so peaceful there that he couldn't bear to wake her up even when the pilot announced they'd crossed the pole and then the Arctic Circle. There wasn't much time left, and he wanted to make love one more time, but he just held her, and watched her face, and counted her quiet breaths.

Finally she stirred and opened her eyes and smiled that drowsy smile. "Hey."

"Hey."

"I love you," she murmured. "A whole lot."

She'd been saying that lately, in an easy, casual way that didn't leave much room for denial. She loved him, and could say it straight out the way she'd been never able to say in all those years he stayed by her side. It was because, he thought as he gathered her close, because he was leaving. She always loved best the one who left. He knew that, and forgave it, and loved her the still even while she broke his heart this one last time.

He got his last kiss in just as the pilot announced their descent, and then it was time to sit up and get ready and stare out the window at the dark gray and white peaks. Buffy held onto his arm and pointed at the long narrow valley and the glistening of jetway. "There's the airport." She nestled closer. "I don't see a welcoming committee of demons."

"Mostly farther south. I'll start down that way soon as I find a truck I can requisition."

The tarmac was rutted, and grass was growing in the cracks. The jet bumped a little as it crossed to the little terminal, and then ground to a halt.

They'd timed the arrival for just after sunset, and the light was golden and kind as Spike emerged from the plane. The pilot was already unloading the baggage compartment from the belly of the plane. Buffy went to help, and Spike stood there, annoyed with her and battling it badly. She should be here next to him, kissing him goodbye, and instead she was bantering with the pilot and manhandling the luggage.

So Spike concentrated on counting the bags-- six with weapons, and four with supplies. That was all of them. But Buffy was still at the pilot's side, pulling another pair of bags from the plane. She hauled them over to Spike's pile and set them down.

"A present for me?"

"Sure." She picked up one bag and pushed it at him. "Open it and see."

The zipper was stuck, and he struggled with it, glad for the distraction from the coming farewell. Finally he got it open, and stuck his hand in, and felt something silky and smooth, and yanked it out. He stood there staring at a tiny pair of red panties, and then looked up to see Buffy smiling, and the pilot behind her, watching with interest.

"Thanks," Buffy said, and the pilot turned and mounted the steps.

Spike stuffed the panties back into the bag, uncertain, afraid to speak. Afraid to hope. The stairs rose with a quiet hum, and Buffy took his arm and moved him back away from the jet. And then with a shrill whine, the jet backed away and took off.

When it was gone from the sky and there was no way to call it back, Buffy came into his arms. "You dummy. Did you really think I was going to let you fight alone?"

Spike couldn't think. "Uh. Yeah. I guess so. Buffy--"

"Shh. No arguments." She kissed him quick, once, twice, on the lips. "For years you fought alongside me in my fight. Now I'm going to fight yours."

"But--" No arguments, she'd said, and her face told him she meant it. "What about Dawn?"

"She knows. She's fine with it. Got school, and Giles and Andrew and Xander watching out for her. And the jet's coming back to get us for a break in a few months."

"You set this all up." He shook his head to clear the cobwebs. "When?"

"From the start. When I figured out that you meant it, that you were going to come back here, I decided I'd come with you."

"So all this time--"

"Yeah." She grinned up at him. "See, you don't know me as well as you think."

"You can still surprise me." He put his cheek against her silky hair and breathed in. "Does this mean I'm in charge?"

"Only in bed. Then I'll be at your command."

"Now that I'll have to see. More used to you ordering me to kiss that and touch this--"

She smacked him in the chest, but since he was holding her so close, she didn't have much leverage and it didn't hurt. Much. Then she subsided against him and said, "Got your back, vampire." And then, very quietly, "I love you."

He let it seep in, the truth of it, the fact of her in his arms. Still with him. Always with him. "Okay," he said, "Now I believe you."

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published on LiveJournal in December 2004.


End file.
